“Yes,” he said, speaking aloud to himself, “I will go back and follow his Grace of Marlborough for a while on his campaign—­but in two years’ time I will come back—­to Gloucestershire—­and see what time has wrought.”

But to Flanders he did not go, nor did my Lord Duke of Marlborough see him for many a day, for Fate, which had so long steadily driven him, had ordained it otherwise.  When he reached Dunstan’s Wolde, on crossing the threshold, something in the faces of the lacqueys about the entrance curiously attracted his attention.  He thought each man he glanced at or spoke to looked agitated and as if there were that on his mind which so scattered his wits that he scarce knew how to choose his speech.  The younger ones stammered and, trying to avoid his eye, seemed to step out of his view as hastily as possible.  Those of maturer years wore grave and sorrowful faces, and when, on passing through the great hall upon which opened the library and drawing-rooms he encountered the head butler, the man started back and actually turned pale.

“What has happened?” his lordship demanded, his wonder verging in alarm.  “Something has come about, surely.  What is it, man?  Tell me!  My Lord Dunstanwolde—­”

The man was not one whose brain worked quickly.  ’Twas plain he lost his wits, being distressed for some reason beyond measure.  He stepped to the door of the library and threw it open.

“My—­my lord awaits your—­your lordship—­Grace,” and then in an uncertain and low voice he announced him in the following strange manner: 

“His—­lordship—­his Grace—­has returned, my lord,” he said.

And Roxholm, suddenly turning cold and pale himself, and seized upon by a horror of he knew not what, saw as in a dream my lord Dunstanwolde advancing towards him, his face ashen with woe, tears on his cheeks, his shaking hands outstretched as if in awful pity.

“My poor Gerald,” he broke forth, one hand grasping his, one laid on his shoulder.  “My poor lad—­God help me—­that I am no more fit to break to you this awful news.”

“For God’s sake!” cried Gerald, and sank into the chair my lord drew him to, where he sat himself down beside him, the tears rolling down his lined cheeks.

“Both—­both your parents!” he cried.  “God give me words!  Both—­both!  At Pisa where they had stopped—­a malignant fever.  Your mother first—­and within twelve hours your father!  Praise Heaven they were not parted.  Gerald, my boy!”

My lord Marquess leaned forward, his elbow sank on his knee, his forehead fell heavily upon his palm and rested there.  He felt as if a blow had been struck upon his head, which he moved slowly, seeing nothing before him.

“Both!  Both!” he murmured.  “The happiest woman in England!  Have you been happy?  I would hear you say it again—­before I leave you!  Ay,” shaking his head, “that was why the poor fool said, ‘Your Grace.’”